


Know Someone

by nagi_schwarz



Series: The Only Boy In The Room [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-23
Updated: 2013-11-23
Packaged: 2018-05-26 05:54:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6226510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nagi_schwarz/pseuds/nagi_schwarz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When hunters need legal help, Bobby knows someone who might know someone. Bobby POV. Set pre-Only Boy in the Room.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Know Someone

Bobby’s heart crawled into his throat. Damn these straight-laced Utahns and their round-the-clock dedication to justice. It was just his luck that he’d been in the middle of digging up a grave in a jurisdiction that had twenty-four-hour courts. What happened to government workers making a dash for the doors at five p.m.?

The deputy sheriff was young and fresh-faced and looked like he shaved once a week at most, but he had a shiny wedding band on his left hand and a picture of a pretty wife holding a baby tacked to the inside of his visor in his squad car. Bobby could take him easy, but they had his car and his picture and had burned one of his best aliases. Getting out of the state wouldn’t be easy at all. Luckily it was only a couple of hours to the southern-most border. Chances were Utah sheriffs didn’t have a good relationship with Nevada law enforcement.

Bobby let the smooth-faced kid haul him up the steps and into the courthouse. The halls echoed with the roar of industrial vacuums and polishers, and a mop bucket squeaked just inside the women’s restroom door.

Courtroom Four was home to a stone-faced, elderly male judge who looked like he wanted to be anywhere else in the world. His black robes, however, were pressed neatly, and he was obviously a stickler for the rules, not just the law.

The prosecutor was a broad-shouldered, thick-necked man in an expensive suit who was probably once the most popular football player in high school.

The young deputy sheriff manhandled Bobby over to the defendant’s table.

The bailiff was a petite blonde woman in her mid to late forties wearing a pink skirt suit. “People versus Robert Singer, alias Frank Castle, on the charges of grave desecration. Judge Kenneth Stiles presiding.”

Judge Stiles raised his eyebrows. “Grave desecration?”

“Out in the Cottonwood Heights cemetery, Your Honor,” the prosecutor said.

“What’s this about an alias?” Judge Stiles rifled through the case file the bailiff set in front of him.

“He was posing as a private investigator with a non-existent Utah License,” the prosecutor said.

Judge Stiles squinted at him over the top of his glasses. “Mr. Hannigan, I didn’t think tonight was your night.”

“Switched with Markham. His wife’s having a baby,” Hannigan said. “Anyway, the defendant was caught red-handed, his license didn’t hold up.”

“No charges for practising without a license?”

“We’ll consider adding them later, depending on how the defendant cooperates.” Hannigan cast Bobby a look askance.

 

Judge Stiles raised his eyebrows. “How do you plead, Mr. Singer?”

 

“Don’t I get a lawyer or something?” Bobby asked.

 

“He got his one phone call,” the deputy said. “No lawyer.”

 

That was because Jim Murphy didn’t know any lawyers in Utah. Or any hunters in the area who could fake one long enough to spring him.

The rear double doors burst open, and a young woman in a pin-striped skirt suit hurried toward him, leather briefcase bouncing against her calf. “Pardon my tardiness, Your Honor. I attempted to meet Mr. Singer at the police station, but they’d already moved him here.”

“And you are, Counselor?”

“Amanda Quince, Bar Number 12025. I’m Mrs. Jensen’s lawyer,” she said.

“This is an arraignment for one Robert Singer,” Judge Stiles said.

Amanda was dark-skinned, had an hourglass figure, and looked like every lawyer Bobby had seen in dirty films and like no lawyer he’d ever seen in real life. “Mrs. Jensen is the widow of the deceased whose body Mr. Singer was exhuming,” she said. She came to a halt beside Bobby, ignoring the deputy’s indignant hiss of, _No, on the other side of me!_  
Judge Stiles raised his eyebrows at Hannigan. “Anything from the prosecution on this new development?”

Hannigan fumbled with the very thin file on the desk before him. “Our office hasn’t had a chance to contact Mrs. Jensen.”

Amanda tossed her head to straighten her hair and flipped open her briefcase. “I have a signed and notarized affidavit from Mrs. Jensen confirming her assent to Mr. Singer’s exhuming her husband’s body.” She held up a piece of paper with a signature and a blue stamp at the bottom. “If I may, Your Honor?”

Judge Stiles beckoned. “Did Mrs. Jensen say why she wanted her husband’s body exhumed?”

“Since his death she’s suffered some emotional distress. She wanted Mr. Singer to perform a religiously significant cultural ritual on the corpse to clear some of the negative energy she’s been feeling as of late,” Amanda said smoothly.

That sounded like BS if Bobby had ever heard it, and as a hunter, he was a pervasive purveyor of BS. Amanda headed up to the judge’s bench and handed over the affidavit. She headed toward Hannigan and handed him a piece of paper as well.

“A photocopy for you, Mr. Hannigan.”

“Quince, is it?” Hannigan glared at her but accepted the piece of paper. “You managed to convince some guy to marry you?”

“If a lawyer can’t be convincing, well, she doesn’t deserve to get paid.” Amanda smiled at him, then turned and headed back toward Bobby.

She was a real lawyer. What the hell?

Judge Stiles scanned the affidavit. “Everything looks in order, Ms. Quince. Although next time one of your clients wants a religious ritual performed, perhaps she’d better clear it with the cemetery officials first?”

“I will tell her, Your Honor,” Amanda said. “She has been very distressed as of late. In fact, she has been so distressed she has required hospitalization.”

The woman had required hospitalization because the ghost of her dead husband threw her down a flight of stairs.

Judge Stiles turned to Hannigan. “Anything else to add?”

Hannigan’s hand clenched. He was seconds away from crumpling the photocopied affidavit into a ball and throwing it at Amanda’s head. “No, Your Honor. Deputy, uncuff him.”

Bobby could have uncuffed himself, but he held out his wrists so the kid could do his job. They were all just doing their jobs.

“Mrs. Jensen appreciates your sensitivity toward her situation,” Amanda said. She cast Bobby a sidelong glance, and knowing gleamed in her eyes. “Need a ride back to your motel, Mr. Singer?”

“Yes, please,” he said.

Amanda drove a sleek old Jaguar sedan with a lovely leather interior.

“Quince, huh?” Bobby said. “Like the Idaho Quinces?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Aren’t they kinda...blond?”

“My husband is pretty blond,” Amanda agreed sagely. She headed toward the cheapest motel in town without even asking.

“That was a pretty good act you put on back there.” Bobby wished he had his weapons on him.

“Not an act. Stanford Law, class of 1990.” Amanda smiled.

“And you’re a hunter?”

“Someone has to get you boys out of legal pinches now and again.”

“So you lie in open court?”

“Lawyers aren’t allowed to lie in open court. I wasn’t lying.” Amanda jerked a thumb in the direction of the briefcase she’d stashed in the back seat. “I talked to Mrs. Jensen and explained the situation and what you had to do to help her husband’s spirit pass on, and she consented after the fact.”

“Huhn. Who knew telling the truth worked. Or that lawyers even could.” Bobby cast her another look. She looked terribly young. “What do I owe you?”

“Maybe fixing a car sometime in the future. Promise it won’t be anything too drastic,” Amanda said. She pulled up in front of his motel room and handed him a plastic bag full of his effects. It still had the police station markings on it. “You can get your car in the morning.”

Bobby took a deep breath. “Thanks,” he said.

“Any time, Mr. Singer.” Amanda handed him a business card with a flip of the wrist that belied years of experience with that one tiny motion.

Bobby slid out of the car, personal effects in hand. As soon as he was back in his motel room, he lunged for the phone and dialed.

“Blue Earth Parish, this is Pastor Jim Murphy.”

“Jim, tell me everything you know about Amanda Quince.”

Jim burst out laughing. “How are you even still alive?”

Bobby sank back down on the bed and groaned. Maybe he should just lose her business card. “She’s that dangerous?”

“No. She’s that much of a spitfire. Useful to know, though. You never know when you’ll need a lawyer in your corner.”

“About that,” Bobby said. He would have said more, but the display on his cell phone lit up. He tore open the plastic bag. It was Caleb. “Jim, I gotta call you back.”

“Good luck with Amanda and her man,” Jim said.

Bobby answered his cell phone. “Caleb, what’s up?”

“Hey, Bobby. Got pinched checking out some records.” Caleb sounded unnaturally cheery. “You don’t happen to know a California-licensed attorney, do you?”

“No, but I know someone who might know someone.” Bobby held up the card and stared at it. Dare he dial?


End file.
